By Hypnothrill published April 24, 2019

Andre should have never downloaded that “ColorCorrect” photo app…

I want to start off by sincerely thanking Elan Musk, whose story “Becoming a Good Boy,” ( helped to inspire this, as well as Martin, who has helped to facilitate a truly interesting discussion about representations of race, racism, and domination in gay erotic MC stories. I hope neither of you will be offended by the satirical elements in this story, because I do truly respect both of you, even if I don’t always agree with all the viewpoints you express.


If there was one thing Andre loved, it was taking selfies. He supposed it made sense; he was getting his MBA in Marketing, after all. And half of marketing was about knowing how to market yourself.

He wouldn’t say he was vain though. He just had a unique look, and it was natural that he wanted to show that off. There weren’t many other black guys he knew with red hair and freckles. Of course, he supposed that was all part of what his Grandmama called his “creole blood”; she didn’t like it when he called himself “black.” And maybe in an early generation he might have been described as “high yellow.” But in 2019, in Trump’s America, Andre was well aware of how he was perceived as a black man. For all the talk of a “post-racial America,” too often people only viewed things in “black” or “white” terms.

So sure, he posted a lot of selfies on Instagram. And sure, he put a lot of time and money into looking good. But Andre figured that he was making a statement: showing the world that “black” came in many shades, all of them beautiful.

The only thing Andre loved more than taking selfies was downloading new apps. So when he spotted a photo app called “ColorCorrect,” he immediately downloaded and installed it, not even bothering to read the Terms and Conditions first. (Like, did anyone ever read those?) He always spent a long time on color-correction before posting anything to Insta; too many of his photos either made his skin look too dark or washed everything out so much you couldn’t even see his freckles. So if there was an app that could cut down on all that hard color-correction work, he wanted to try it!

Once he’d opened the app, he uploaded a selfie he’d taken earlier that afternoon: a shirtless pic in the park. There was so much glare from the sun, it could definitely use some color correction.

Once he’d uploaded it, a little window popped up: “COLOR DETECTED: WHITE.” Huh? What did that mean?

Andre didn’t have much time to think about it before another message popped onto the screen, flashing: “COLOR CORRECTION IN PROGRESS” Then underneath a progress bar was rapidly counting upwards:


Andre was confused; what was this app doing anyway?


Andre was starting to feel dizzy as he stared at those flashing words: “COLOR CORRECTION… COLOR CORRECTION…” He had to grab hold of a chair, he felt so unsteady, like he was losing his grip on reality.


Andy was conf… Wait, why did he think his name was Andy?… He was Andre… wasn’t he?


Andre was conf… Wait, why did he think his name was Andre?… He was Andy… wasn’t he?


Andy could tell that something was wrong with the app, but he couldn’t figure out what. Better just let it finish then. Everything was almost corrected anyway.


Andy stared at the corrected picture. Really it wasn’t that different from the one that Andre had uploaded: maybe the skin tone was a few shades lighter, the freckles and red hair were a tinge more prominent.

But the way that Andy viewed his selfie was very different than the way Andre had viewed his.

To Andy, the shirtless redhead in his selfie was the quintessence of white manhood. Of white power. And if there was anything Andy believed in, it was white power.

He even had a white power symbol tattooed on his skin, though you couldn’t see it in the photo; it was low on his hip bone, just beside his neatly shaved ginger pubes.

Speaking of his groin area, Andy was starting to feel a stirring down there as he stared at his shirtless selfie. Just look at him! He was a fucking stud—a fucking Viking! Just one look at that photo and anyone could see he was a member of a superior race.

But he needed to prove it. He could feel that—could feel it in his thick white dick, in his ginger-furred balls. He needed to dominate the inferior races, to show them that the white man was still in charge. To teach them their place—on their knees, their heads bowed, their black asses up in the air, impaled upon his superior Aryan cock.

Right then, another message popped on his cell phone screen: “NOW YOU CAN COLOR CORRECT YOUR FRIENDS’ PHOTOS TOO!”

That sounded like a good idea. Andy began thumbing through his photo album and soon came upon one that shocked and sickened him. In it, he had his arm casually draped around the shoulders of a black man, and they were smiling like they were the best of friends!

What the fuck was this!? Some kind of joke? Some sort of Photoshop prank?

Deep in the recesses of his mind, he recognized that the black man was his friend and roommate Bryan, a 2nd year law student at the same university. But that couldn’t be right, Andy quickly concluded. There was no way he would be living with a… with a… negro! Especially not some kind of uppity negro who thought that he could become a lawyer. (And why had he thought they were both studying at the university? Hell, Andy had never even graduated high school!)

No, there was something wrong with this whole picture. Something that needed to be Corrected. Andy quickly thumbed through his photo album, picked out a solo picture of Bryan, and uploaded it into the app…

Bryan was walking back from class and was nearly home when he got the text from his roommate Andre. What was this? No words, just a photo.

Bryan opened it and took a look. What the hell? It looked like him, but there was something wrong, something off about the lighting and the color contrast. It was so dark and shadowy you could barely make out his distinguishing features. His smooth complexion, his strong jawline, even his dimples—you couldn’t see any of them. He just looked like a generic black man.

He didn’t look that… did he?

Suddenly, Bryan didn’t feel so sure. He didn’t feel so sure of anything anymore. Normally, Bryan was full of confidence—top of his class in law school. But now, as he approached the door of his apartment, Bryan somehow had the thought that people like him shouldn’t be so cocky, so proud. That people like him should accept their limitations, should know their place.

As he opened the door and walked into the apartment, Bryan shook his head as if to clear it of such nonsense. What was he thinking? If he put his mind to it, he could be anything he wanted to be. Isn’t that what his mamma had always told him? Maybe he could talk to Andre about it, get a little pep talk.

He was shaken from his thoughts by a sneering voice: “There you are, boy. What were you doing out there? Did I give you permission to go out on your own?”

Bryan felt so confused, his head was spinning. The man in front of him looked a lot like Andre, but Andre never spoke to him like this, never looked at him like this, like he was… subhuman. “Who… who are you?” Bryan stammered.

“Is that any way to talk to your Master, boy?”

“S…sorry, Master Andy,” Bryan stammered before he even realized what he was saying.

What the fuck? Why did he just say that? Suddenly, a flood of memories came back to him, of Andy, the strong, proud, dominant white man who had claimed him, who had shown him his proper place.

No, that wasn’t right! This was Andre, his friend, his roommate, his equal! They’d been living together for… For how long now…? Bryan couldn’t seem to remember. All his memories were evaporating; every detail he tried to grasp hold of just floated into the ether.

“I’ve been waiting for you, boy,” Andy growled at him and rubbed the crotch of his jeans. “Waiting to be serviced.”

As Andy began to pull down his zipper, Bryan knew that he needed to get out of here quick. He was already having flashes, false memories of getting down on his knees every time Master Andy unzipped his pants, of salivating every time Master Andy pulled out his big hard perfect Aryan cock and slapped it across his face a few times before shoving the whole length down Bryan’s throat and making him choke on it.

Fueled by adrenaline, Bryan started running and made it out the door without giving into the temptation to look back behind him. Not sure where to turn, he ran down the hall and banged on the apartment door of one of their neighbors, a white grad student named Martin.

“You’ve got to help me!” he shouted as a surprised Martin opened the door. “Andre’s gone crazy, and I think I’m going crazy too!”

“It’s okay, man, it’s okay. Just tell me what all this is about. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t even know how to explain it! It’s like a bad dream or shit! It’s like Andre’s not Andre anymore, he’s this white racist dude and he keeps calling me ‘boy’ and shit and saying he’s my master! And the scary part is, part of me thinks that he’s right! It’s like, I’m not me anymore. I’m not Bryan. I’m just some black man… no, some black boy! Part of me just wants to be Andy’s black boy!”

Martin looked increasingly confused as Bryan rambled on. “Wait, back up. Who’s Andre again?”

“You know, my roommate Andre! You’ve known us since… since…”

Martin scratched his head, which was starting to feel a bit jumbled. “Um… I don’t… I mean… I remember Andy… your Master Andy… Did you guys have a fight? Did you run away from your Master? Is that what this is all about?”

“What the fuck are you talking about!? You’ve got to remember Andre. You know, black guy? Light-skinned?”

“I don’t see why you have to make this a racial thing,” Martin sniffed. “You know I don’t see color. Anyway, it seems to me like everything is fine. If you just go back to Master Andy and show him you know your place, I’m sure he’ll take you back. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Something in Bryan’s head—his last shred of dignity, his last bit of pride—snapped as he suddenly realized that yes, he would like to go back to Master Andy. He’d like that very much.

“You… you think so, sir?” Bryan asked, his voice now a timid whisper.

“Oh, I’m sure of it. People are people. Everyone’s basically the same. And everything will work out fine in the end,” Martin replied, intoning each bland platitude as though it were a profound piece of wisdom.

Andy didn’t look too surprised when the door opened and Bryan slunk back in, his head hung low in acknowledgment of his shameful act of rebellion. It was obvious he’d been expecting this; Andy’s cock was sticking out of his jeans and was already fully hard. But Master Andy wasn’t going to let his boy suck the superior white cock he craved, not just yet.

“Lick my boots, boy!” Master Andy commanded, pointing to his dirty black leather Dehner combat boots. Bryan got on his hands and knees and began licking every surface of the boots clean. Every so often, Master Andy would sneer, “You missed a spot!” and give him a little kick in the ribs, but Bryan didn’t dare complain. He knew his place.

“You want this cock, boy? This magnificent white cock?” Master Andy asked, and Bryan nodded silently, his eyes downcast.

“Well then first strip off all those clothes. I don’t even know how a black boy like you got fancy clothes like that. Strip that all off until you’re bare-ass naked. Like a slave ought to be.”

As Bryan stripped off his expensive sneakers, and then his polo shirt, then his khaki pants, and finally his socks and underwear, it was like he was peeling off layers of his identity, everything that had made him “Bryan.” He didn’t need that anymore. Now he was just a body. Just a naked black body.

And since he was now just a naked black body, just a featureless mass of dark skin shrouded in shadow, indistinguishable from any other black man, the name “Bryan” was no longer important to him. He’d soon forget about it and start to just think of himself as “Master Andy’s Boy.” That’s all that really mattered.

And as Master Andy shoved his big white cock down his black Boy’s throat… and as he thrust his big white cock into his Boy’s tight black ass… and as he shot his big white load all over his Boy’s broad black back… All that either of them could think was how Correct this felt.

Everything was as it should be now. Neatly sorted into little boxes, as clean as the 1s and 0s of the app’s binary code. Sub and Dom. Slave and Master. Black and White.

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